Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

‘Owain of Strath Clota has made peace with us, formed an alliance with us,’ Domnall said, ‘so King Constantine has no enemies north of Bebbanburg. Owain is with us, so is Gibhleachán of the Islands. So who will be your ally, Lord Uhtred?’

‘Egil Skallagrimmrson,’ I said. It was a fatuous response, and I knew it. Egil was a friend, a Norseman, and a great warrior, but he had few men, just enough to man two ships. I had given him land north of Bebbanburg along the southern bank of the Tuede, which was the border between Northumbria and Constantine’s Alba.

‘Egil might have a hundred warriors?’ Domnall suggested, almost sounding sorry for me. ‘A hundred and fifty, perhaps? And they’re all rare fighters, but Egil’s not an ally to strike fear into a whole nation.’

‘Yet I dare say you sailed well clear of his coast on your way here?’

‘We did,’ Domnall admitted. ‘We sailed a good way offshore. No need to prod a wasps’ nest unnecessarily.’

‘What am I? A dung beetle?’

Domnall smiled at that. ‘You’re a great warrior with no strong allies,’ he said, ‘or do you think of Æthelstan as a friend?’ He paused, as if judging his next words before they were spoken. ‘A friend who breaks his oaths.’

And this meeting, I thought, was no different to Guthfrith talking with Constantine’s envoys. I had been angered when I learned of that, yet here I was, entertaining Domnall in my fortress. Æthelstan, I knew, would hear of this conversation. I was sure there were men in Bebbanburg who were paid to report to him, or else his spies in Constantine’s employment would make sure he heard. Which meant he must hear what I wanted him to hear. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said harshly, ‘has broken no oaths.’

‘No?’ Domnall enquired gently.

‘None,’ I said sharply.

Domnall leaned away from me and took a long pull of his ale. He cuffed his mouth and beard with his sleeve, then nodded at the small priest next to him. ‘Father Coluim?’

‘A little more than a month ago,’ the priest said in his surprisingly deep voice, ‘on the feast day of Saint Christina, virgin and martyr,’ he paused to make the sign of the cross, ‘in the great church at Wintanceaster, the Archbishop of Contwaraburg preached a sermon before King Æthelstan. And in that sermon the archbishop urged, most strongly, that oaths taken with pagans are not binding to Christians. He said, indeed, that it is a Christian’s pious duty to break any such oaths.’

I hesitated a heartbeat, then, ‘King Æthelstan is not responsible for the rubbish a priest vomits.’

Father Coluim was unmoved by my rudeness. ‘And that same day,’ he went on calmly, ‘the king rewarded the archbishop by giving into his keeping the lance of Charlemagne that Hugh, ruler of the Franks, had given to him.’

I felt a chill. I had men and women in Wintanceaster who sent me news, but none had mentioned that sermon, but then the oaths that Æthelstan and I had exchanged were supposed to be secret.

‘The very same lance,’ the priest continued, ‘with which a Roman soldier pierced the side of our Lord.’ Father Coluim again paused to cross himself. ‘And the very next day, on the holy day of Saint James the Apostle,’ another pause, another sign of the cross, ‘the archbishop preached from the book of Deuteronomy, castigating the pagan places, and laying upon the king the most Christian duty of eradicating them from his land and from among his people.’

‘Castigating,’ I said, repeating the unfamiliar word.

‘And as a reward,’ Coluim was looking into my eyes as he spoke, ‘the king gave into the archbishop’s keeping the sword of Charlemagne which has a sliver of the true cross enshrined in its hilt.’

There was silence, all but for the crackle of the fire and the sigh of the wind and the long waves beating on the shore.

‘It is strange, is it not?’ Domnall broke the silence. He was gazing up into the rafters. ‘That King Æthelstan has never married?’

‘I’m sure he will,’ I said, though I was far from sure.

‘And he wears his hair in ringlets,’ Domnall said, smiling at me now, ‘tangled with gold thread.’

‘It’s a fashion,’ I said dismissively.

‘A strange fashion for a king, surely?’

‘A warrior king,’ I retorted. ‘I have seen him fight.’

Domnall nodded, as if to suggest that Æthelstan’s choice of hair decoration was of small importance. He cut himself some cheese, but did not eat it. ‘You were his teacher, yes?’

‘Protector.’

‘A warrior king,’ he said carefully, ‘has no need of a protector, nor of a teacher. He just wants,’ he paused, searching for a word, ‘advisers?’

‘No king lacks for advice,’ I said.

‘But they usually only want the advice that agrees with them. An adviser who opposes his monarch will not long stay an adviser.’ He smiled. ‘This is good cheese!’

‘Goat cheese.’

‘If you can spare some, lord, my king would appreciate the gift. He is fond of cheese.’

‘I shall order it readied,’ I said.

‘You’re generous,’ Domnall smiled again, ‘and it seems that your warrior king has found an adviser who agrees with him.’

‘He has Wulfhelm,’ I said scornfully. Wulfhelm was the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg and had the reputation of being a fiery preacher. I did not know the man.

‘I am certain King Æthelstan listens to his priests. He is famed for his piety, is he not?’

‘As was his grandfather.’

‘Yet King Alfred did not have a Norseman as his chief adviser,’ Domnall hesitated, ‘or should I say companion?’

‘Should you?’

‘They hunt together, they kneel together in church, they eat at the same table.’

‘You mean Ingilmundr.’

‘You’ve met him?’

‘Briefly.’

‘A young and handsome man, I hear?’

‘He’s young,’ I said.

‘And King Æthelstan has other,’ he paused, ‘advisers. Ealdred of Mærlebeorg offers advice when Ingilmundr is away.’ I said nothing. I had heard of Ealdred, a young warrior who had made a reputation fighting against the southern Welsh kingdoms. ‘But Ingilmundr seems to be the chief,’ another pause, ‘adviser. You know that the king has generously given him much land in Wirhealum?’

‘I do know that,’ I said. Ingilmundr was a Norse chieftain who had fled Ireland with his followers and had taken land on Wirhealum, a wide strip of land between the seaward reaches of the Dee and the Mærse. That was where I had met Ingilmundr, at the fortress Æthelflaed had ordered built at Brunanburh to guard against Norse forays up the river Mærse. I remembered a striking-looking man, young, charming and about as trustworthy as an untrained hawk. Æthelstan, though, had trusted him. Had liked him.

‘And Ingilmundr, I hear,’ Domnall continued, ‘has become a good Christian!’

‘That will please Æthelstan,’ I said drily.

‘I hear that much about Ingilmundr pleases him,’ Domnall said with a smile, ‘especially his advice about Northumbria.’

‘Which is?’ I asked. Even to ask suggested my ignorance, but why else had Constantine sent Domnall, if not to surprise me?

‘We’re told Ingilmundr claims Northumbria is a wild, untamed land, that by right it belongs to Æthelstan, and that it needs a firm ruler, a Norseman perhaps? A Christian Norseman who will swear allegiance to Æthelstan and work tirelessly to convert the many heathens who infest the northern land.’

I stayed silent for a moment, testing the truth of what Domnall had said. I did not like it. ‘And how, I wonder,’ I said, ‘does King Constantine know so much about the advice of a hunting companion?’

Domnall shrugged. ‘You receive news from other countries, Lord Uhtred, and so do we. And King Owain, our new friend,’ he nodded courteously at the grim Dyfnwal who was Owain’s brother and chief warrior, ‘is fortunate in having other friends, some of whom who serve Anlaf Guthfrithson.’ He paused. ‘In Ireland.’